Deeds of War
by kangeiko
Summary: Jack/Irina/Sloane, at Sydney's wedding set at the end of S4, non-S5 compliant .


TITLE: DEEDS OF WAR  
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

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They are both outside, sitting on some metal monstrosity faux-Americana designers deemed to call a bench and sipping champagne from thin flutes. She debates slipping away without disturbing them: she has already broken her self-imposed rules and spoken to Syd (all white silks and rustling veil and so completely overjoyed to see her mother on her wedding day that Irina feels it like shards of glass in her palms). There is really no reason to break her rules even further.

(But Katya had been curious enough when given the assignment two whole years ago to prod. Why, Ira, why this? Until, at last, _because he takes what is mine, Katya, and I have to gift it to him if it is to remain mine_. Katya, who had always been able to get her way and who had been pampered and spoiled by her sisters since infancy, had thought this most peculiar, but had agree to humour her. You need a man, if you become this anxious about a mere husband without one, Ira, she had laughed, and stroked Irina's hair. Very well. I'll do as you say and speak to your lovely Mr Bristow for you.

Irina had never doubted the outcome of Katya's deal with Jack. Sydney would be saved, and the ridiculous notions of chivalric martyrdom and ever-lasting friendship on the part of Arvin Sloane that her husband was currently entertaining would be swiftly dispelled.

You can't take what is mine, Arvin. You can only accept the gifts I choose to give you.)

It was a good plan, a Derevko plan; no move for a single purpose and none to be traced back to her (Katya had always been very generous in bestowing her kisses). And she supposes that there will be some pay-off to be collected soon, because the night is warm and pleasant, and they are both outside, sipping champagne and talking quietly.

Things are progressing well, and she really should leave them to it.

(She wants to see whether two years of subtle work has had any effect at all.)

Sloane is up on his feet the moment he sees her but almost everything else has already been played out (and she has been away for ever so long) and so she thinks, well, why not?

They look _happy_.

Inside, Syd is spinning around with the young Vaughn in some sort of frenzied dance (she can see Nadia out of the corner of her eye joining in, and thinks that maybe it's a form of rueda she's unfamiliar with). There are guards posted everywhere, and this place is top secret and the Covenant is gone and she and Sloane and Jack are some of the biggest players left and they're all _here_, to watch Syd dance and laugh. (They look _happy_, she thinks, and is almost sorry for being there.)

After a moment's hesitation she says, don't let me chase you away (though she doesn't quite mean it), but Sloane takes her at her word and sits down again.

(There are several champagne flutes on the table, with a disposable camera and many folded napkins. Irina thinks that it looks like a movie set, complete with ivy and half-light and sparkling crystal.)

She draws up a metal chair, mindful of the hideous amount of noise she's making, and sits opposite them. It's like the old game of charades that they used to play at Christmas for Sydney's benefit; she's not sure if her play has been discovered, or if it simply would not yield satisfactory results. (Maybe Katya botched it, she thinks, and never told me.)

(Maybe there's really nothing there.)

They arrange themselves carefully, shifting to the far right of the bench, limbs somewhat too close together to look entirely natural. (She knows better. They know each other's bodies as intimately as any wedded couple; better, for wedded couples don't often have to stitch each other up with needles and thread and nothing else at all.) It would look awkward on any other pair as tightly-reined, but she's had to roll both of them into the same bed, she thinks, so it's all – no, she has to pause there, and wonder where that non sequiter came from.

Sudden recollection:

It's some time after Sydney's conception, when Arvin and Emily came over one evening and the boys had too much to drink. She remembers that she and Emily put them both to bed and stayed up, drinking chamomile tea and talking about babies. (Emily was not a particularly useful contact to cultivate, she remembers, so their friendship petered out to monthly dinners after Sydney's birth.)

At any rate, Sloane is evidently entirely comfortable with his thigh pressed against Jack's, sitting turned half towards him, as if they're sharing an intimate conversation (when, really, all three are simply talking about baby Syd and what a beautiful bride she is). Both Jack and Arvin are smiling and practically _glowing_ with happiness and pride (she imagines that the three of them would probably qualify as a single parental unit) and then Jack shifts to get more comfortable and his arm slides across the back of Sloane's seat. It's a mannerism that Irina has seen hundreds of times before, something that Jack did only with her or Sloane. My god, Irina thinks, mouth suddenly dry. My god, they look like lovers.

(This is not Katya's doing, nor mine.)

Their body language is that of people intimately comfortable with each other, with skin as just skin and no pretences. (She wants to hold this moment in a little box, and bring it out the next time they are at each other's throats over imagined slights.)

Let me take a photo of you, she says suddenly.

She snags the disposable camera from the nearby table in one swift movement, almost too fast to see. (The evening shadows help.) She's the only sober one here, and there's a pleasant flush along Jack's cheekbones that she hasn't seen in such a long while (she's watched the tape of 'her' murder, of course, but it is such poor, grainy footage that she could barely recognise herself, let alone watch the slow flush of arousal heat Jack's cheeks as he pulled the trigger). In matter of fact, 'she' has never seen him drunk at all: only Laura has. Only Laura, and Arvin, and Jack's smiling that way at her again, but his arm has slid up to curve around Arvin's shoulders.

All right, Jack says, and he's smiling (just like when he shot the clone, she thinks), eyes bright and smile so impossibly _happy_, like yesterday never happened and he's going to die this very evening.

Arvin says nothing at all.

(She almost fumbles the camera at the sight of Arvin's look, which is a great deal more possessive than any man should feel over an ally's husband.)

No matter. (Things such as that are easily fixed.)

*flash*

Irina's hands pause over the camera, and she sets it back on the table. She decided that she had overstayed her welcome almost the moment the flash went off (Arvin's look is far too challenging, she thinks, for someone who exists purely on her good graces, and he probably needs reminding). The noise inside the main hall surges and, quickly, while they are still embracing and blinking away the flash, she leans forward and kisses Sloane on the lips, swiftly but firmly.

Jack's breath catches at the sight.

The kiss is almost chaste; lip to lip. Sloane keeps his mouth closed; merely pursing his lips a fraction as if in mockery or a feinted yield (she does not care to ask which). His lips are dry and chapped from the champagne, but she doesn't mind. It is over in seconds.

Her hand cupping Sloane's jaw, she turns and kisses Jack, sliding her tongue between his pliant lips. This is new, she thinks, this is _different_; it is as wet and as hot as all their kisses previously (did he kiss the other Irina this way, she wonders briefly), but Jack has one hand on her elbow and the other is still around Sloane's shoulders.

Jack's mouth is open when she pulls away and, my God, she thinks, my God, _they've never done this before_. She has one hand buried in Jack's curly hair and another grazing Arvin's jaw and she can feel their muscles working as they kiss, open-mouthed.

They are not remotely self-conscious and Irina thinks, _bohze moi_, what I could do with _this_, and closes her eyes at the flush of power. Her hands on them, slowly stroking, she listens to flesh on flesh and remembers how each of them looked.

(This is now something that Arvin will never be able to take from her, because she has chosen to _give_ it; to gift Jack's kiss to him and have Arvin be the poorer for it because he would never, ever be able to take it on his own.)

Arvin's soft low exhalation of breath she remembers well, and Jack's sharp gasp (kissing, it's only kissing; it's nothing more than that, she tells herself, but her eyes open and Arvin's hand is now on Jack's waist, his thumb pushing small circles of comfort through the fabric) and Irina thinks – why do I have to leave now? (Surely there is something to be gained by staying one moment longer.)

It is a quick kiss, perhaps no more than half a minute, but it is there and their lips are wet and swollen when they pull apart. (They are delightfully surprised, and neither has noticed that Arvin's hand is still on Jack's waist – lower, she thinks, and, as if by mind-control, the manicured fingers stroke down to her husband's hip.

Neither notices.)

They're drunk, Irina thinks, delighted, they are actually completely drunk. Not the almost-inebriated state agents so often cultivated, letting them move between drunkenness and sobriety at a moment's notice; no, they are genuinely fall-down drunk. She doubts that either would be able to find their weapons, let alone use them.

And she wonders, When was the last time either of them had felt safe enough to get this drunk?

(She doesn't remember seeing a report on either of them drinking; no surveillance photos, no casual dinner with friends. Certainly neither of them would have done it with strangers.

Maybe, she thinks, it hasn't happened for a while.

Maybe not since she left.)

She amuses herself by thinking of all the advantages to be gained from this and discarding them one by one, like burnt gifts on an altar. _And here I place my husband's and my ex-lover's kisses, and what they might lead to: all the advantages this would give me, and all the strengths I could exploit, and all the promises I could exact._

She spent two years pushing them together and there has been nothing gained. With Rambaldi's endgame resolved, what is left from this?

(She wants to watch them kiss again.)

All those Irina loves and cares for are safe and in one room and they are happy, and she knows where each and every one of them is, even standing outside the room with her drunken husband and her drunken ex-lover (they are carefully untangling their limbs, without even the grace to blush. Bohze moi, she thinks, leave now, before it's too late!).

They do not argue when she turns to leave, though Jack's gaze is almost palpably hot.

(She palms the camera and doubts they notice.)

She slips out easily, with Sloane's kiss branding the centre of her palm and Jack's bite on the side of her neck, the disposable camera a comforting weight in her purse. Inside the great hall, the toasts are about to begin and she can hear steps as everyone files in from the cold.

She nods to herself (she'll check in on them later) and takes out three of Sark's men on her way out.

*

Stephen Crane, _The Black Riders_: XV

"Tell brave deeds of war."  
Then they recounted tales, --  
"There were stern stands  
And bitter runs for glory."  
Ah, I think there were braver deeds.


End file.
